


Plum Brandy And Superman Mycroft Holmes

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Holmeses, Fluff and Angst, In his very unique way..., It's All Fine, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Matchmaking, Minor Injuries, Mutual Pining, Mycroft To The Rescue, No Smut, Perhaps Crack, Probably set outside of the canon, Protective Mycroft, Sibling Incest, So Wrong It's Right, What Have I Done, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 18:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17668124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: John thinks Sherlock should find someone to love. A drunken confession shows him that he already loves someone. John takes matters into his hands.





	Plum Brandy And Superman Mycroft Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this might be the weirdest story I've ever written. But since I've bothered to finish it after struggling with it for two weeks, I thought I can as well post it. I hope it's not too annoying :)
> 
> This will be the last story at least for a while. The other longer fic I've started is a pain in the arse to write and I have no idea if it will ever be finished. New ideas are rare as well so farewell for now. Much love to my kind regular readers and to everybody who gives this strange story a try! :)

## Prologue

“Molly's really nice, isn't she?” John said while they were leaving the morgue. They had spent the last half an hour with examining a very bloody corpse and he could see that Sherlock was eager to get fresh air as well. But hadn't there been unusual looks between Doctor Molly Hooper and his _'no-touchy'_ partner?

Sherlock nodded. “Sure.” He sounded rather indifferent but then – he did most of the times.

“Why don't you, you know, ask her out one day? You know she likes you.”

Sherlock sighed and he sounded seriously annoyed. “Did you forget what I told you on our first day? Girlfriends are not my area.”

“Oh, right!” Pretty stupid of him… Sherlock didn’t exactly seem to be straight indeed. And as he'd said back then – it was all fine.

*****

“That client… Handsome fellow, wasn't he?” An elegant man of thirty-five, banker, jet-black hair. Definitely a looker… if John could judge that…

“Hm? Maybe. Didn’t notice.” Sherlock sounded right-out bored.

John nodded. Was worth a try… He had a new girlfriend and Sherlock – he had never had anyone since they had moved into 221B and probably never before. It was a shame.

*****

“Greg looked really good today, don't you think?”

“Who?”

“Lestrade!”

“Oh. Did he?” Sherlock shrugged. “I just noticed his exceptionally silly questions.”

“Oh well…” Actually John had had the same questions in mind but he had let Greg ask them. They were all idiots compared to Sherlock after all… But he didn’t like to show it more often than necessary.

The fascinating green-blue eyes were dangerously narrowed when their look was directed at him rather frighteningly. “What exactly have you been trying to do lately? Set me up with someone?”

John shrugged. “I just thought… You're always alone. A nice boyfriend would be, well, nice.”

Sherlock snorted. “Nice! I don't give a damn for 'nice'!”

“All right! Won't try it again!” It had been a silly idea after all. Sherlock didn’t seem to miss anything, being on his own.

“Good!”

## A Week Later - Plum Brandy One

“S'good!” Sherlock's articulation was more than a bit slurred and he seemed to tumble a little in his chair. He was fumbling with his collar as if it had suddenly gone too warm in the living room of 221B Baker Street.

“Yesss! Good stuff!” John realised he didn’t sound any different and also felt a tiny bit dizzy and right-out tipsy, and he couldn’t have cared less.

“A cheer for blum prandy!” Sherlock giggled. “Plump branny,” he tried again and shook his head about himself in sheer astonishment that his tongue was letting him down like this.

It stunned John that his friend, who had taken every drug under the sun, responded so heftily to alcohol. Very good alcohol… “Nailed it!” He raised his glass and took another gulp of the deliciously burning fluid they had received as a gift from a very grateful client. A huge bottle, still two thirds of the tasty content left.

“Not nailing you,” Sherlock giggled, leaving John convulsing with laughter.

“God forbitt!” he giggled and narrowed his eyes when Sherlock's face fell. “Whatt? You want to…?”

But Sherlock ignored the question, instead poured down more brandy. “S'not forbidden,” he mumbled. “But My'off is.”

“What?” John felt like suddenly sobering up. And he remembered how depressed Sherlock had appeared in the morning, refusing to say what the reason was. But Sherlock had spent the night at home as he was absolutely sure! And nobody had come to the flat, either! And what the hell was he even thinking about?! “Mycroft? What about him?” he asked nonetheless, leaning forward in his chair. The dizziness in his head had subsided quite a bit already. Nothing more sobering that an unexpected incest-confession…

“Nothing. Thatstha problem! Dreamt of himmm,” Sherlock said darkly.

“Last night?” Of course… He'd had a dream that had disturbed him!

“Yes! Superman!”

“What?!”

“Was he! Superman! Bad guy took us. Mygof came and he had a… a cape and he could fly and he took me and weffff… we flew away.”

“And what about _me_?!” John shook his head over himself in the same moment. Was that really the most important question right now?!

Sherlock looked rather disturbed. “Left ya there! Oh God! Bet they killed you!” He seemed to be close to crying now.

“That's fine! Just a dream, you hear me! I'm right here!”

“Yesss…” Sherlock nodded, looking a bit relieved but also deranged and moody.

“What happened then?” John asked curiously and drank a gulp of water for good measure.

Sherlock poured down the rest of his plum brandy. “Sssuperman fucked me.”

John spat the water over his legs.

He used that as an excuse to get up and hurry to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and sat down on the closed toilet seat. Sherlock was in love with his brother? Fantasied about… having sex with him? On the receiving end above all?! He pushed that thought away. That wasn’t important now either!

What did Mycroft think about Sherlock's feelings? Probably nothing. He certainly didn’t know about them; John had seen them interacting often enough to be sure of that even though he wouldn’t be so presumptuous to say that he knew Mycroft Holmes. As far as he could say, nobody did. But now Sherlock's rather childish behaviour towards his older brother made sense – refusing to take Mycroft's cases just to solve them behind his back anyway! Being snarky and resentful whenever they met but talking (or rather complaining) about him for hours on end as soon as Mycroft had left… Christmas with their parents and his brother in his childhood home even though he could have found an excuse to stay away – and whenever his parents came to London, he was able to find plenty of – obviously made-up – reasons for not having to spend any time with them so he certainly didn’t go home because of _them_!

Sherlock loved Mycroft. And not exactly as a brother… And Mycroft had no idea about it.

What would he think if he did? And… Could it possibly be that he… felt the same? In the end John had never realised that Sherlock felt like this for his brother. So why should it be different with Mycroft who was of course smarter than him and able to do deductions at least as well as Sherlock but hardly spent any time with him?

Why did that thought not shock him more? The image of the two of them in… compromising positions…? Because these were the _Holmes brothers_ … In their own league brain-wise. And in every other area as well… Not fitting for the usual people. Average men (and Mycroft was gay as well; so much was sure for John) would bore and annoy them to death should they ever even look at any. He had been trying to set Sherlock up with other people to get him a love interest that would save him from spending his life alone, and he had never even considered this candidate! For a reason, obviously. But it had a strange logic to it… Two good-looking, super smart and antisocial brothers who didn’t understand and weren't understood by the 'idiots' around them.

Damn…

Sherlock, his beloved best friend, who had saved him from a life of boredom and depression, deserved his 'Superman'. And since he obviously didn’t want or dare to tell Mycroft, someone else had to do it – i.e. he, John.

John grinned. He could imagine this situation perfectly: _'Oh, hi Mycroft. Did you actually know that Sherlock desires you and wants to get fucked by you?'_

Probably not a really good strategy.

What else could he do?

Then he nodded to himself. Yeah… Perhaps that could work… If not, he would probably end up in an anonymous grave in the forest. But John Watson had never been known as someone to shun any danger… And there wasn't much he wouldn’t do for Sherlock Holmes.

First of all, he had to find out what Mycroft thought about Sherlock of course. And he wouldn’t waste any time doing that. He refreshed himself with cold water and went to his room to change into fresh clothes.

When he returned to the living room, Sherlock had fallen asleep in his chair, and he was quietly snoring and drooling adorably.

John grinned and took the bottle. Mycroft should come home from work soon… and John hoped the other Holmes brother liked plum brandy as well.

## The Same Evening - Plum Brandy Two

John took a deep breath before he rang the doorbell. He knew where Mycroft lived as Sherlock had once sent him over to his brother to give him some papers for a case they had solved for him. He had told John that this huge house had been the property of a crazy Holmes uncle whom John would have loved to meet, but sadly he had died a few years ago, stumbling over the hem of his long skirt when he had proceeded to walk down the steps in this house.

He had seen light and yet he had to ring the doorbell again and wait some minutes in the pouring rain before he heard steps. He had seen the camera above the door, well, of course there was one…

So Mycroft didn’t look surprised to find him in front of his door, but of course he was surprised anyway that John had come to visit him as there was no open case they'd have to talk about.

“Is everything all right with Sherlock?” he asked as soon as they looked into each other's face.

The question was a nice start but not enough to answer _John's_ questions. In the end it only proved that Mycroft cared about Sherlock, and that had been clear anyway. John had not forgotten the kidnapping on the first day… “Yes! Just thought, you know, I should visit you so we can… talk a bit.”

Mycroft eyed him with an expression of deep suspicion. John didn’t blame him. “All right… Do come in, please.”

He had spoken in his usual perfectly articulated way but somehow he did sound a bit different – as if his tongue was heavier than usual. And he was holding himself up very straight as always but when he stepped aside, John saw that he was just a tiny tad unstable on his feet. Had he drunk some alcohol already?!

John raised his right hand. “I haven't come with empty hands,” he said, showing the still well-filled bottle of the extraordinary plum brandy, and Mycroft's face lightened up quite a bit before he plastered his usual expression of indifference on it.

“Very considerate of you. Well then… This way.”

John looked around in wonder while they were crossing the hallway. When he had come last time, Mycroft had just ripped the papers from his hands and grumpily thanked him without even bothering to ask him in. Even then John had thought he was disappointed that Sherlock had not come himself…

The house was impressive, so much was sure. Big, scary paintings of frightening-looking people who seemed to follow them with eyes full of madness. Holmeses, for sure… “Dear ancestors?” he asked nonetheless in an attempt at small talk.

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed. They were all quite… remarkable.”

“No doubt about that,” John mumbled and shuddered a bit. He wouldn’t have wanted to meet any of them…

The living room they entered was wide and surprisingly friendly with bright wooden walls and a fireplace. It oozed an aura of old-fashioned old money.

Mycroft gestured at an armchair and sat down in the one opposite of it after placing two glasses on the little table between them. John smiled and poured them a generous amount of brandy. Of course he wouldn't drink much of it but he hoped Mycroft would do it. He had seen the half-empty glass of whiskey on another table next to the couch but it obviously took more to make Mr Control get tipsy and loquaciously, if that was possible at all.

Mycroft looked at the dark-brown liquid appreciatively but also quite a bit suspiciously, as if he thought it could be poisoned. After seeing the brothers interact with each other several times, John couldn’t really blame him…

“It's really good,” he assured the older man. “A grateful client brought it; it’s self-made.”

“I hope it won't blind me…”

“Ah, Sherlock drank quite a lot and he's fine.”

“He never drinks…” Mycroft mumbled.

“Well, no. But this stuff is so tasty he couldn’t resist.”

Mycroft raised his glass in a silent toast and carefully drank a sip. “Oh. Very pleasant indeed.”

John did the same which finally seemed to placate Mycroft. “Yeah! I hope we can help her again with a case,” he smirked.

Mycroft drank some more and his face showed pure pleasure.

Who would have thought that these extremely smart and complicated brothers were so easy to please? But of course John wasn't here just to pamper Mycroft with booze. He had a plan.

“How's Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, his tongue audibly even heavier than before. He was impeccably dressed in his trademark three-piece-suit but he had loosened his tie, apart from the whiskey his only concession at the fact that he was at home now and his working day was over.

John wondered if this man ever truly relaxed. Probably not. He was always working in one way or the other, and probably he was always wondering what his loose-cannon-little-brother was up to…

“He's…” He shrugged. “Fine, yes. But…”

“But what?”

“Oh, it's nothing. He just seemed a little sad lately. A bit more introverted than he usually is.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. He had put his almost empty glass onto the table, and John hurried to casually fill it again. “How so? Has anything happened?”

“Nah. Perhaps there has been a, you know, _admirer_ ,” John said suggestively.

“A what?!” Mycroft looked as if he had told him Sherlock used to rob nuns for fun these days.

John shrugged. “I could be wrong. But I do have the feeling that someone, you know, broke his heart.”

Mycroft looked as if he had slapped him and as expected, he grabbed the glass again and took a gulp from the tasty liquid. “Didn’t hear anything about a man,” he mumbled, more to himself than to John, and John realised that they were indeed under surveillance. Which was not good. He would have to be very careful.

“Well, guess I was wrong then,” he said with a shrug. “So. How's work?” It wouldn’t do to make Mycroft even more suspicious than he already was…

“Good,” Mycroft said darkly and emptied his glass. Probably work wasn’t that good after all… “But he solved this case?” he asked - returning to their subject which John found very promising. His cold blue eyes looked a bit dazed now. The older Holmes brother certainly had a way higher tolerance for alcohol than his brother but the fact that he had drunk something before made things easier for John.

“Oh yeah. Perfect as ever. Cheers! Oh, let me refill your glass…”

“I've had enough…” The protest was rather weak and he reached out for the full glass at once.

John just took another sip. He needed a clear head. He hid the glass in his both hands so Mycroft couldn't see the level. But Mycroft didn’t waste a look at it anyway.

“S'smart, little brother,” he said to nobody in particular, his eyes were staring at the floor.

“Oh, yes. Very,” John agreed. “Some have the looks, some have the brain,” he added, cheekily, hoping it was not too fast.

It wasn't. “Both,” Mycroft disagreed. “He has both. Was always the pretty one…”

That didn’t prove anything of course. In fact it rather sounded like contemplating their sibling rivalry. Mycroft, the elder one, stiff and serious and the good boy, or so John imagined. And Sherlock, the wild baby brother, loud and reckless. And pretty, definitely. Not that Mycroft was ugly, but John supposed his good looks had developed rather late, supported by his elegance, his position of power and his dignity. He knew Mycroft had been a chubby boy, Sherlock hadn't left much doubt about that, and certainly Mycroft, tall and slim and superior today, looked a lot better now than he had as a boy and a teenager. So Mycroft's words could be taken as jealousy.

“I reckon,” John said. “Probably Mummy let him get away with everything because he was such a cute boy.”

Mycroft smiled and it looked as if he was lost in thoughts of the certainly unspeakable past of the Holmes brothers. “Oh yes. Everybody did. He was so charming and sweet, especially after having done something really nasty…” He drank more plum brandy.

John snorted. “Yeah, he still does the nasty stuff but charming and sweet? That's past!”

Mycroft glared at him. “That's not true! He still is! Beautiful and sweet and…”

He blushed and John hurried to provide him with more brandy. He wasn't here to embarrass Mycroft but to get the truth about his feelings for Sherlock out of him! They were getting there though… But he had to be absolutely sure!

“Yeah,” he agreed while Mycroft eagerly drank the evil liquid. “He can be. But most of the times he just bites everybody away. He doesn’t like people. They are all too dumb for him.”

“Th'Holmes brain's a curse,” Mycroft nodded, and his articulation finally started to get a bit slurred.

“I bet! Always dealing with people who are so far beneath you! No wonder you never got married.”

“Married?” Mycroft huffed out a bitter laugh. “A woman? No woman for me.”

“A man then? Someone nice and handsome and sweet,” John suggested.

“Nobody isss… All boring and dumb and bah…” Mycroft emptied his glass again and almost missed the table when he tried to put it down on it.

“Yes,” John heartily agreed. “Nobody in this wide world for a man as smart and special as you.” For a moment he feared Mycroft could think he was trying to get in his pants… Thank God, he didn’t…

“Mm-mm! Nobody but…”

John leaned forward. “…but?”

Mycroft mumbled something completely incoherently and his head sacked to the side.

He couldn’t fall asleep now! John patted his knee and he opened his eyes again.

“What?”

“Nobody but?” Probably Mycroft had forgotten already what they'd been talking about.

He hadn't.

“Nobody but Sherlock… My beautiful Sherlock.”

“Oh yes. He's very attractive, isn't he?”

“Yeah. Pretty baby brother…”

“And sexy, right?” John held his breath. There it was – the forbidden word. Forbidden for Mycroft, that is.

But the politician was far too drunk to be careful anymore. “Sexy, yesss. Dat arse…” And with this he slumped in his chair and he almost immediately started to snore.

John grinned from ear to ear. Yes! He had made sure Mycroft shared Sherlock's unbrotherly feelings. And now he would make sure they wouldn’t suffer anymore, on their own, lonely, pining for each other.

John had a mission and he rubbed his hands in anticipation. Perhaps he would risk his life but hey – Mycroft had been the first to see that he was missing the war… And he was fighting for a good cause after all!

## Ten Days Later – Superman

“This is it?”

John nodded. “Yes. In there.” He pointed at the rusty door of the long abandoned warehouse. Ironically enough, it looked similar to the one he had been brought to for meeting Mycroft when he had just stumbled into Sherlock's life.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. “This looks like a trap.”

Oh yes, he _was_ smart, his best friend… The best friend who had woken up the morning after the plum brandy orgy with apparently no memory of his confessions about his brother. Or at least he had not behaved any differently than usual apart from complaining about his aching head.

John shook _his_ head vehemently now. “No. I'm sure it's fine. Nothing evil is waiting here.” Which was true. In fact nobody was waiting here… “She said she could only meet us here to show us the evidence.”

“Evidence for what?” Sherlock hissed and John shrugged.

“I don't know. She didn’t want to tell me. But she sounded totally trustworthy.”

Sherlock snorted and probed at the door. He seemed surprised when it opened up without a problem.

John was not nearly as surprised. He had made sure they would be able to enter without a problem. It had taken him two days to figure out and prepare this location and three days for thinking everything through and gather enough confidence to trust himself to be able to really do this. It could go wrong; he knew that. It could go wrong spectacularly. But if it didn’t, the outcome would be worth it… He had rented a car then and observed Mycroft – very carefully, but he had learned a thing or two from working with the world's only consulting detective.

At first, he had thought his plan wouldn’t work as Mycroft didn’t leave the house after coming home from work and the sun went down too late for doing it right after that, but today his driver had taken him to an expensive bar and it was only fifteen minutes away from the warehouse. John had taken that as a very good sign. An omen, actually.

“Did you bring your gun?” Sherlock whispered after taking a look into the dark building with narrowed eyes.

“Oh yes.” John pulled it out. He would need it very soon. And in fact he was carrying _two_ guns.

His heart was hammering now, adrenaline dominating his system. It almost felt like a real ambush.

“I heard something!” Sherlock hissed.

“Probably a rat.”

Sherlock grimaced and then he finally slipped through the door, and John followed him.

It was dark. Very dark. But his eyes adjusted to it very quickly and he knew Sherlock's would, too.

“Here is absolutely nothing but old machines,” Sherlock stated.

“Let's go a little further inside,” John suggested, his fingers clamping around the gun.

Sherlock gave him a sceptical look but he slowly moved forward.

And then John lifted the gun and smashed it against his own temple. The noise was ugly and echoed through the silent hall, and Sherlock whirled around to him and stared at him with wide eyes while blood was flowing over John's face. It hurt but John barely winced. He'd had it worse.

“What the…” Sherlock broke off, uncharacteristically speechless.

John shrugged. “I’m a doctor, I know how to inflict ugly-looking injuries that don’t do any real damage.” Perhaps he should have stuck to his alternative plan of telling Mycroft to come to Baker Street in a Superman costume for an alleged party but a) Mycroft would have probably never done that, b) he would have called Sherlock to ask what this was about and c) even John, though not a psychologist, knew that the Superman dream was not to be taken that literally. A costume wouldn’t do it. This wasn't about looks but actions… So well, there had to be some blood…

“But why?!” Sherlock yelled.

John scrutinised him. “Do you trust me?”

“That you’ve gone completely mad?! Yes!”

“Seriously, Sherlock. Do you trust me? Do you trust me to be your best friend who will never do any harm to you?”

Sherlock bit his lip and then he nodded. “I do. I think you're crazy but I do.”

John smiled. “Great. Don't forget that, and don't tell anyone about _this_.”

“About what?!”

And then John grabbed him at the shoulder and hit him on the temple with the butt of the gun, just a tad harder than he had hit himself to make sure the impact was the one he was looking for. And it was. Sherlock stared at him for a second, wide eyed and completely confused, and then he was off.

John was holding him in a firm grip and then he slowly let him slide to the floor. He checked Sherlock's pulse and breathing and nodded to himself. Everything was fine.

And then he turned and ran outside, pulling his phone out after storing his gun. When he was outside, he dialled Mycroft's number.

*****

“What?! _Where_ are you?!” Mycroft was holding his phone in an iron grip. He had left the bar - where he had spent two ghastly hours with a few very important people - abruptly when he had received this phone call. A call from John Watson could only mean bad news about Sherlock. And it did…

“Can't talk loud,” John Watson croaked. “They are there! And they have Sherlock!”

“I'll call Lestrade!”

“No! You know he'll just mess it up!”

“Then… a team of agents…”

“No! No time! Just you! You and I will get him out of there!”

“But… I haven't done fieldwork for…”

“Doesn't matter! Come now!”

Mycroft was already walking towards his car where the driver was waiting for him. “John, really… I'm unarmed and my martial arts skills are not that great anymore…”

“Come. I brought two guns. And Sherlock will never forget it if you come to his rescue like… like Superman!”

Mycroft closed his eyes for a second before he hurried towards the limousine and slipped onto the backseat. He gave the driver the address and earned a puzzled look before they drove off.

He was sitting at the edge of his seat the entire way. Sherlock was in danger! He was held hostage! And _he_ would save him like… whoever this Superman was!

This was pure and utter madness…

*****

“Oh dear God, John!” Mycroft stared at the doctor's blood-smeared face and completely deranged appearance. This man needed to be taken to a hospital! And if _he_ looked like this, in which state would he find Sherlock?! Still he had no idea what was going on here, why Sherlock was in this building and with whom. But there was no time for explanations; in this he agreed with Sherlock's flatmate. He had left the car two streets away and just run here, just to make sure he wouldn’t alarm the people in the warehouse.

“I'm okay. No time to waste! You take this entrance and I'll go around the building! Here.” John offered him a gun, and Mycroft took it.

It wasn't the first time he was touching a weapon but he had never fired at any living creature. But of course if Sherlock was in danger, he would shoot whoever dared impede him from rescuing his beloved little brother, his one and only.

“All right.” He took a deep breath when the doctor gave him a determined look and ran off. Then he creeped up at the building and opened the door just wide enough to slip into the warehouse.

Darkness engulfed him and he slowly moved forward, the gun in his hand. A very silly thought crossed his mind: if anyone could see him now, with his expensive black suit, his bowtie and his gun, they would think he looked like a rather embarrassing version of James Bond. Which villain was expecting him here? And how many enemies would have to be dealt with?

He stilled when he heard a noise. Someone was moaning. And he would recognise this voice in all circumstances!

Sherlock!

*****

With a groan Sherlock sat up, his hand reaching up to his aching head, and he could feel sticky blood under his fingertips. What had happened? Where was he?

And then the memory came back with full force. God, this…

“Sherlock?” he heard someone hiss from a few metres away, and he tensed. That couldn’t be! This wasn't John or a stranger. This was…

“My God, Sherlock.” His brother kneeled down next to him, a gun (!) in his hand. He looked around wildly. “Where are they?”

“Who? John…” He broke off, recalling John's demand to not tell anybody that he had beaten him down. And he still couldn’t believe that his friend had done this to him! After thrashing his own head above all!

“He's gone to the other side of the building. I'm sure he'll be here soon if he doesn't meet your attackers!”

Attackers?! What the hell was going on here? Why was his brother kneeling next to him in a black suit as far as he could see in the dim light, with a gun, as if he was on a rescue-mission…

“Are you quite all right, dear?” Mycroft said, and even in the dark Sherlock could see the worry in his pale-blue eyes. Mycroft had come to his aid. He, the man who practically lived behind a desk, glued to his computer and his phone, whispering into the ears of the mighty and who hated legwork and hadn't been in the field for decades, had come to save him.

Sherlock's heart was pounding and almost by itself, his right arm curled around his brother's neck.

Mycroft tensed for a second but then he stored the gun and slung both arms around Sherlock's waist. “You're sure you can stand up?”

“Yes.” But when Sherlock was back on his feet with his brother's arms still firmly embracing him, he let himself slump against Mycroft's chest, smelling his eau de cologne, and he buried his face in the crook of his neck and breathed him in. “You came for me?” He vaguely realised that he had to smear blood on both Mycroft's suit and neck, but his brother didn’t seem to bother.

“Oh Sherlock. I'd go anywhere if you needed me.”

Sherlock felt hot tears in his eyes.

“Dear!” Mycroft whispered, pulling him even closer.

“Love you, Mycroft…”

Mycroft stood stock-still for a few seconds and Sherlock sobbed even harder. What an idiot he was! Mycroft had come because he wanted to protect his little brother, just like he'd done when Sherlock had been a child. And when Sherlock's own feelings had changed when he had been sixteen, when he had started to see the handsome, charismatic man his brother had become and he had realised he desired him, he had hurried to put more distance between them so Mycroft wouldn't notice. They had lost each other but Sherlock's feelings had burnt on forever.

“You mean – as more than a brother?” Mycroft carefully asked, and Sherlock realised that Mycroft's heart was hammering against his chest like his own had to pound against Mycroft's.

And he didn't sound repulsed – he sounded hopeful. So Sherlock didn’t try to lie.

“Yes. Much more than that… You're my… Superman…”

“Superman?! Oh. Oh! Who hit you, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, pulling back so he could look into Sherlock's face.

“Um…”

“It was John, right?”

“Yes, it was me.”

Both men whirled around to the wryly grinning Doctor John Watson. “In my defence – what else should I have done? Tell both of you that the other one was in love as well? That didn’t seem to be an option. I could have tried to pull off the costume party trick but…” He shrugged.

“There is nobody else here, right?” Mycroft asked, still holding Sherlock close.

“Nah. Just us. I wanted to disappear and hoped Sherlock wouldn’t tell you but then I thought I should rather listen if my plan had worked.”

“How… Oh. The plum brandy,” Sherlock mused.

“Yep. You're both adorable when you're drunk,” John chuckled. “And you say things you would never say otherwise.” He stepped closer. “Are you fine? Bad headache?”

“No, it's okay. I guess a shower and some balm will do.”

“Great. And no offense meant, right?”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said. “Your methods were a bit… unorthodox but…”

John shrugged and grinned. “You know me – not a man of subtlety. You've got your car still around, Mycroft?”

“Yes. I will take my brother to my house.”

“Great. See you tomorrow, Sherlock.”

Both Holmes brothers bade him goodbye and then they were alone in the most unromantic place in the world. But it didn’t matter when they kissed for the first time with Sherlock's face all bloody and dirty and his clothes dusty and deranged. His head was pounding quite a bit but he couldn’t have been any happier. His Superman had come and he had rescued him from a life of pining and loneliness and vice versa.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I wrote this to deal with John's horrible canon violence that probably never happened in this fic. Here he uses it for the benefit of Sherlock (and Mycroft) for a change. I wonder how you feel about that!


End file.
